


Clash

by mistleto3



Series: Fan Poetry [2]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistleto3/pseuds/mistleto3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saruhiko and Misaki are polar opposites. </p><p>Free verse poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clash

**Author's Note:**

> This poem can also be found on [Tumblr](http://mistleto-3.tumblr.com/post/143585172179/clash) and [Deviantart](http://mistleto3.deviantart.com/art/Clash-605936862).

You are blunt.  
When I provoke you,  
(and you’re so easy to provoke)  
you lash out, you leave bruises  
branded on my skin  
(like some cruel twist on a love-bite).  
  
I am sharp;  
I sling insults like knives,  
and they cut exactly where I know  
it will hurt you the most.  
(Your blood is crimson,  
just like you.)  
  
Your wounds are fresh  
and you are enraged,  
like an injured wild animal,  
all teeth and claws and bloodlust.  
You have felt loss, had the things you cherish  
ripped from your hands;  
your intensity, your fury, your hatred,  
your crackling, roaring pain,  
they make you vengeful.  
  
(I wish I could say I understand,  
but my pain is water, and yours is petrol;  
I drown while you burn.)  
  
My wounds are old-  
a scar on my collarbone,  
and an itch that won’t go away.  
The dull, chronic pain is all I know;  
I am used to it. I am embittered by it.  
I do not have the capacity for passion  
or a lust for revenge  
the way you do.  
Not after everything.  
  
I am just tired, now.  
This relentless aching,  
the constant drumming  
of intrusive thoughts  
and self-destructive urges  
against the inside of my skull…  
It drains a person.  
I care so violently, so deeply,  
that I dare not allow myself to care at all  
in fear that it will obliterate me.  
  
Sometimes, I wish you would hurt me  
so that, for once,  
I could feel a different sort of pain  
(and a sick sort of pleasure.  
After all, if it’s you who wounds me,  
then at least those bruises, those scars,  
are proof that you remember  
who I am).  
  
But I couldn’t ever tell you that,  
(not that you would understand if I did).  
So I smother my suffering in silence, while you scream  
until your throat is hoarse  
and the tears have long stopped coming.    
You scream because the world is not fair.  
  
(My dear, if the world was fair  
I would not  
be in love  
with you.)


End file.
